


war of the singers

by AnxiousEspada



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Oneshot, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Valdo Marx Sucks, Victim Blaming, bard tournament, geralt protects his bard, kinkmeme fill, no beta we die like witchers, noncon is not between geralt and jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousEspada/pseuds/AnxiousEspada
Summary: “Still a pity I wasn’t the one to make wishes on that djinn’s account. These tournaments would be so much more enjoyable without him.” Jaskier scoffed.In which Geralt learns just how deep Jaskier’s hatred for Valdo Marx runs, and why.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Valdo Marx/Jaskier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1120
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	war of the singers

**Author's Note:**

> Fill written for the kinkmeme (https://witcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/429.html?thread=309933)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little one shot as much as I enjoyed writing it! Heed the tags as always.

“Are you sure this is something you want to witness, Geralt? A good three handfuls of people as extravagant, or  _ worse,  _ than me, prancing around a castle for a week, trying to outrhyme one another?” Jaskier joked, and Geralt wasn’t entirely sure whether he was trying to convince him not to come along, or if he really, _ really  _ wanted him to watch this spectacle.

“Yes,” said Geralt decidedly. The other raised a well-trimmed eyebrow at him, still not convinced. What was he supposed to say? That he felt guilty for wishing the end of his profession upon the bard and almost succeeding? Certainly not. So he huffed, and steered Roach to follow the way sign that pointed towards the East. 

Jaskier followed on his own horse, a stockier breed packed as heavily as possible with all kinds of caskets containing various outfits, fabrics, instruments beyond the lute he usually took on their shared adventures. “Alright, but then you have to  _ promise  _ not to complain. Unless it is about other performers, of course. Oh, just you wait! Yes, it is good that you’re accompanying me. Finally you get to see just how much more superior I am to those other troubadours!”

“Mh,” hummed Geralt, wondering already if he should regret his decision.

  
  


The ride was pleasant enough. They took their time through the forest, which turned more orange and red by the day. The mid-autumn air became more crisp every night, and Geralt could see an interesting transformation take place in Jaskier. The closer they got to the castle called Vartburg, where the annual contest of bards took place, the more in his element he seemed to be. Also, a type of nostalgia seemed to befall him, as he more than ever delved into stories of previous years, previous adventures, and recounted how he had beaten his fellow entertainers again and again. Jaskier’s favourite discipline were the ballads and sung love poetry, which he practised continuously on their travel up the hills. His clear and clean tenor rang out beautifully between the trees. At first, Geralt had tried to shush him, especially in the approaching evening hours, as to not wake the interest of beasts or wolves. Jaskier had calmed him; the forests around here were groomed and protected by the king of Cidaris, and so far Geralt had indeed not been able to spot the slightest trace of a predator. 

Jaskier’s most hated discipline was riddles. The mere thought of them angered him.

“It’s not like I don’t see their artistic value, Geralt, really. I’m impressed by people who want to fry their brains all day and night over problems they are not meant to solve, and the art of poetry certainly always overlaps with the art of deceit. But let me tell you this, none of the folks who call themselves riddle poets are good people, and how can they be if their main enjoyment is rooted in irritating the mind? They’re all terrible,” he complained between bites of roasted hare. The witcher kept quiet and listened, mentally taking notes. Just in case the information ever came in handy. 

“And the worst of them all is Valdo Marx. Still a pity I wasn’t the one to make wishes on that djinn’s account. These tournaments would be so much more enjoyable without him.” Jaskier scoffed. Geralt had heard him rant about this Valdo before, but never did Jaskier say more about him than that he was a gross, terrible person. He couldn’t deny that he was curious to meet this fellow who managed to fill Jaskier’s voice with such venom. 

“I don’t think I’m understanding the problem entirely,” Geralt said, after another minute filled with Jaskier wishing countless vile things upon his rival. “You said he specialises in a different category than you. Why do you have to cross paths with him?”

“Because, my dear, undereducated Witcher, while there are different disciplines to participate in and win at, in the end the true winner is he who excels at all of them. That is the goal of each of us who participates. And that is why I must out-riddle this stinking, supercilious, arrogant prick at all costs.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, but nodded. He wasn’t one for constructive criticism in this area, really. Not his expertise. He already missed half of the metaphors Jaskier wove into his ballads, getting lost between synonyms and metonymies. What he didn’t miss was how all this rage turned Jaskier red in the face, and caused his heart to beat faster.

Long before they could see the white castle walls with their timber framework shine through the trees, Geralt could smell it. Sweet scents of roasted meats and various heated wines wafted through the forest, and increasingly, the pair met other travelers headed towards Vartburg on the road. They passed by a few carts, were overtaken by the odd single rider. Jaskier greeted all of them with delight. He grew giddy with excitement, but Geralt, who had known him for half of the bard’s life by now, knew that behind the over-animated joy hid nervousness. He could barely recall even one instance of Jaskier displaying stage fright; it unsettled and thrilled him at the same time.

The dirt path turned to black, worn down and polished shiny cobblestone, announcing their arrival by the sound of their horses’ hooves. Vartburg castle was large, perched on top of a small mountain surrounded by forest, and its majestic walls were decorated in colourful banners from all over the continent. Jaskier sat ramrod straight in his saddle as they approached the gates, and his heart was beating fast and strong. He was basically vibrating with anticipation, and Geralt could feel it tingle at his own fingertips, too, although he had no business here except for being the plus one.

They were greeted by the guards at the gate, who recognised them immediately. “Master Jaskier,” one of them shouted, “how delighted we are to welcome you again this year!” to which Jaskier tipped his befeathered hat and smiled widely. He winked at Geralt, mischief sparkling in his eyes, and there was an electricity in there that Geralt had seen before, somewhere. He wondered, for a second, and the manic spark. 

To Geralt’s dislike, a colourfully dressed herald announced their arrival to the wide courtyard lying behind the castle walls, and for more than necessary, all eyes were on the two of them. But for once, nobody seemed to mind him much, despite his full name being announced. Jaskier clearly was a famous, well-known and well-loved guest here, and all but basked in the attention. They dismounted their horses when the Castellan himself, dressed to the nines, hurried to cordially greet Jaskier. Roach and Jaskier’s steed were taken by an overzealous stable boy to be taken care of, but not before another servant immediately unloaded the horses. Everything seemed well rehearsed here, and Geralt felt slightly out of place. A room inside the castle had been prepared for them already, and from the way Jaskier moved around the corridors he knew the way better than the overladen servant. 

In all its colourfulness and brightness and movement and  _ commotion _ , Geralt already thought he had enough before the day of arrivals had even passed. The good, well, fantastic spiced wines helped him over the fact that with Jaskier’s prominence came a certain amount of stardom of his own. During the first night’s banquet, a terrifying amount of people came up to him to pry holes into him with questions about his adventurous lifestyle, and by the time the servants refilled the wines with more water than alcohol, the stories he had heard about himself had almost made him break a table from frustration.

Somehow, every time he wanted nothing more than to quit for the night, Jaskier had fluttered by, taking a break from socialising and networking, to put a soothing hand on his arm. Geralt was doing this for him, and yes, he was here because he  _ wanted to be.  _ To glimpse into Jaksier’s life, often so far removed from his own despite their years long companionship.

So, between living through horrid tales about himself, he kept an eye on his bard as he swirled through the room. The atmosphere was as gleefully rivalrous as humanly possible, but nowhere could Geralt spot Jaskier’s nemesis. Jaskier spoke to everyone in the room at least once, and not once did he lose his pleasantness. 

  
  


Jaskier fell into the large, luxurious bed barely an hour before dawn. He stretched out on the delicately woven duvet, not caring to take his clothes off due to alcohol induced nonchalance. He giggled as he stared at the Geralt, who was undressing from the fancy garb Jaskier had talked him into wearing. 

“Is wonderful, in’t?” He slurred, badly. “‘S always s’nice… to be here. Won’erful folks.” He giggled again, hands waving to Geralt lazily, who admittedly also had some trouble with the more dexterous parts of his undressing. Finally, he made it into the bed as well, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist, who was already almost asleep, and smelt intensely of sweet wine, firewood and sweat. Geralt hummed, pleased.

“Did ya enjoy yerself?” Jaskier enquired, syllables glued together, and fell asleep before Geralt could say anything. Sleep overtook him soon after, but Geralt enjoyed the view of utterly exhausted happiness on his bard’s face just before.

  
  


The next day, something shifted. Their morning, well, mid-day, was lazy enough. Once they had peeled themselves out of bed, Jaskier had insisted on taking a bath, which was rather delightful considering how well equipped their quarters were. Soon enough, both bard and witcher were clean and smelling of expensive soaps that entirely overwhelmed Geralt’s sensitive nose for more than three hours. Food was had, more stories were passed from storyteller to storyteller, and the schedules were announced. Every night for the following three nights, each contestant would display their fortitude. Then, a day of break for the bards to recover and for the jury to make decisions. And then, two more days of the best five to battle one another in the ‘war of the singers.’ 

One hour before the last contestant was to enlist, the herald cried out across the courtyard. “Vartburg castle welcomes Valdo Marx of Cidaris to the Annual Tournament of Troubadours and Bards!”

From where Geralt was currently busy checking on his beloved horse, he couldn’t see Jaskier, who was taking a stroll on the well-groomed grass field close by, but he could certainly hear him curse  _ loudly.  _ “One godforsaken hour,” he heard him hiss. “For fuck’s sake.” And then, a beat later, more quietly. “Fuck.” Not a minute later, Jaskier appeared by his side, almost hovering over his shoulder. 

“No luck, huh,” Geralt said. Jaskier shook his head, almost bristling with what must be rage. His heart was thundering, Geralt could tell, and the scent of soap began to disappear entirely against the smell of nervousness and something even sharper than that. The manic energy returned to the bard in little ticks and twitches, and Geralt shooed him away from the horses. They deserved their rest, too.

Jaskier waited until the commotion surrounding Valdo’s arrival had died down before approaching to greet him. He certainly waited until he had put his name into the list, as if secretly he had hoped the other bard would decide against participating. Geralt followed only on a hunch - Jaskier’s eyes had flitted back over his shoulder to look at him so often by now, he felt as if he was silently imploring his company. So Geralt did what he did best, and stood close behind, arms crossed in front of his chest and giving his best stoic mountain impression, thankful that he had put on his black studded leathers this morning despite Jaskier’s rolling eyes.

The exaggerated swirl of hands in the air followed by a bow that Jaskier glided into immediately appeared wrong to him. The tiniest tremor had snuck into Jaskier’s hands, which was only logical considering how his little human heart was  _ thundering  _ in his chest. How he kept a steady voice nevertheless, Geralt hardly understood. 

“Be greeted, esteemed Valdo Marx,” Jaskier rose from his bow, which he had kept shallow and short compared to his usual dramatic tastes. “It is an honour to once more be allowed the chance to obliterate you within the rules of the fine arts.” Geralt almost snorted at the haughty tone, but the stench of  _ fear _ wafting off of the bard by now distracted him too much. 

“Save the theatrics for the stage, Dandelion,” the older bard answered with a grin that revealed unpleasantly straight teeth. “Or else you might run out of script, and won’t even make it to second place.”

Jaskier chuckled lightly, and accepted the collegial handshake that Geralt had observed between several others within this castle already, probably a tradition stemming from old guild traditions. “Fear not, old friend, the second place is already reserved for you.” At that, Valdo laughed, arrogance clear in the sound of it, and clapped Jaskier on the shoulder. 

“I see you have brought your tamed Witcher with you! Greetings, Geralt of Rivia. I suppose you are not joining our competition?”

“No,” Geralt said sternly.

A beat of silence. “Ah, well then I shall be glad, as I assume your skills lie in… other fields.” With that, Valdo Marx mockingly bowed to the two of them, and left in a trail of gruesomely bright fabrics. 

Jaskier shook like a leaf. Otherwise, he didn’t move. A sheen of sweat had taken hold on his neck, and his heart was still galloping. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked unsure. The man in question flinched violently, and then shook his head. 

“Sorry,” he said, and now the agitation bled into his voice as well. “I just really hate him.” His knuckles were white from how tightly he had coiled his hands into fists. He breathed out harshly, pressing the air out through his teeth, and then smoothed his doublet down. “Anyway, where were we?”

  
  


With nightfall comes the first evening of the championship, and if Geralt thought the night before had been complete madness, then this night must be an outer circle of hell itself. Bards, apparently all of them, became even louder and obnoxious when the tension rose, not just the one he shared his life with. The commotion in the grand hall that night was three times has awful as the one the night before, and it didn't take long for him to develop a searing headache. Again, he wanted nothing more than to take an early leave, but he had to wait at least until Jaskier had performed. Sadly, there was no set schedule describing who went on stage when - this was all subject to an intricate social and hopefully not political game played between them that he would not understand no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t try; Geralt watched. He wasn’t the only one there to watch. Several entertainers had brought companions, of partners, or friends, and sometimes parts of their own retinue if they happened to be nobles. These, too, mingled with one another.

Once the actual performances began, the room calmed down a bit, since everyone needed to listen to what their rivals were doing. From what it seemed, each performer was allowed a set time slot, during which they could do whatever they wanted as long as it fell under at least one of the three main disciplines, which were ballads, riddles, and something more joyful, probably shanties of some sort. Geralt couldn’t say he preferred any of those. Each performance was followed by minute-long, agonisingly deafening applause, shouts and requests for specials. He knew early on it was going to be a long night. 

Again, the witcher kept an eye on Jaskier, who this time did not stray as far from their table as he did the night before. From what Geralt could tell, he always remained just within the Witcher’s earshot, a strategy they had used at many a dangerous banquet with the chance of a coup or similar before. The way he carried himself was still easy and elegant, charming in every sense, but it looked more practiced than natural this time, and often Jaskier’s smile slipped between conversations into a tight-lipped mask of pent-up tension. 

Surprisingly though, the moment Jaskier got up on stage, he seemed to leave this tension like a shell. A more roaring applause welcomed him to the stage, and even before he picked the first strings of his lute people were screaming titles of his songs in suggestion. An equally patient and eager smile settled on his face as he began his show with one of his songs that could burn down a tavern. It began slowly, picked up speed as it picked up innuendos, and soon the crowd was cheering and stamping along with him. He followed with another crowd catcher, then changed into soft, heartbreakingly quiet ballads, which rendered the room so quiet that Geralt could hear Jaskier’s intakes of breath between the notes all the way across the hall. Jaskier’s eyes met his just at the end of a song, accompanied with a wink. He knew that wink. Geralt’s stomach dropped and he almost threw over his chair before the first note to ‘Toss a Coin’ was played. How did he deserve this type of torture?

Only a few eyes turned to him, however, because Jaskier was captivating. When he finished, the mass of people erupted, and Geralt feared so did his eardrums. Jaskier was swept away by people jumping to their feet, and Geralt lost sight for a moment.

“Such a sweet little lark, isn’t he,” a voice suddenly said beside him, and Geralt turned. “Don’t mind if I sit, I suppose?” Asked Valdo Marx while already seating himself. Geralt had been too focused to notice the man, who was sending him a sardonic grin. “It seems our little Dandelion made you famous, did he not? Must be a nice change of pace for someone of your profession. Usually, your kind are more spurned than adored.”

“I noticed,” Geralt said, eying him. He must have been around a decade older than Jaskier, and he stank of too many rich perfumes at once.

“Of course you have, attentive as you are.” Valdo chuckled again, the noise grating on Geralt’s nerves like sandpaper. “Is it true that your mutations grant you extraordinary observation skills?”

“I can smell that you have mixed ale and wine this evening, and predict that you will feel terrible in the morning.”

“That, Geralt of Rivia, is most certainly true. Is it true also that your kind barely ages?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?” Geralt sneered. This man was making his headache worse, and he really just wanted Jaskier to return to him. 

“Because I like to hear that I am right. Anyway, some of us barely age either. Look at how well little Dandelion has kept himself! He could still pass as freshly graduated, if the light is kind. Of course, the look of wide-eyed innocence is lacking.” Another chuckle. Geralt said nothing, trying to think up an excuse to leave the conversation that wouldn’t insult the other man. 

“Hearing him sing your name must be such a pleasant experience.” Geralt almost snorted, but Valdo’s playful tone took on a more calculated underscore. “I can speak from experience. Although I do prefer another type of crying out, if you catch my drift.” He winked auspiciously. Geralt focused on narrowing his pupils into slits despite the low light, and glared daggers into him. He couldn’t have heard right. In no world could he imagine Jaskier willingly fall for so smug a show-off. Then again, who was he to judge?

Valdo took a sip from a nicely engraved beer stein, leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. Geralt was wondering whether he should tell him about how badly ale affected one’s voice, just to mess with him, or if he should ask him about when he would take to the stage. Then again, he really didn’t want to dive deeper into a conversation with this man, even if knowing one’s enemies was never ill-advised.

Jaskier took this decision from him. The witcher spotted him gently shouldering his way through the sea of bodies, who were already preparing for the next combatant, and they made eye contact. Within seconds, he could see Jaskier’s face fall, all the post-performance joy and giddiness fading from his features like a candle that was snuffed out.  _ What the fuck _ , he mouthed at Geralt as he came closer, while schooling his face into provocative friendliness.

Beside him, Valdo Marx got to his feet with a grand gesture that was entirely unnecessary, and clapped his hands a few times in the grossest mock-applause Geralt had ever seen. Jaskier’s eyes were liquid venom. 

“Truly a spectacular performance, old friend! It is good to see you still stick to your cheap tactics of mass-manipulation, but why change what works, right?”

“It is not my fault that the people love what I do,” Jaskier spat, which fitted only oddly to his still friendly smile. His ears were coloured bright red, yet he seemed dead-set against surrendering. “Maybe you will learn to enthrall more than five people at once, unless the rest of the room hasn’t fallen asleep by the time you introduce yourself.”

Valdo faked a big yawn into his sweaty palm. “I am growing weary of this witless banter,” he said more to Geralt than to Jaskier, and picked up his drink, and leaned in to whisper: “I do recommend you try and get him screaming for you at least once, Geralt of Rivia, if you haven’t yet.” With quick steps, he left the conversation, but not without giving Jaskier a clearly unwelcome pat on the shoulder that lasted longer than it should have. 

Jaskier absentmindedly brushed at the fabric as he took the seat on Geralt’s other side. He shook his head once, forcefully, and when he turned his face to him he was smiling brightly again, as if nothing had happened. Bullshit.

“So I hope you enjoyed my-,”

“What was that about?” Geralt interrupted him. Jaskier blinked. Thought, for a moment, brows knitting together. Hell, his heart even skipped a beat, and Geralt didn’t need his witcher senses to tell that an ugly mixture of blistering anger and intense dislike for the older bard were raging inside him.

“It’s just a feud between two old rivals.” He shrugged. “Nothing to worry your pretty head about.” He put his hand over Geralt’s, right there on the detailed embroidery of the table cloth, but didn’t squeeze hard enough for him not to notice the trembling. 

“Still, you didn’t answer my question. Did you enjoy my singing?”

Geralt wanted to give a noncommittal  _ hm _ , but for Jaskier’s sake he said “Yes,” out loud, and the bard beamed. 

Jaskier sat with him for almost the rest of the night, apparently done with his socially expected mingling for the time being. Geralt didn’t ask him why exactly, didn’t want to keep him from enjoying himself, but he did enjoy seeing him calm down over time. Also, he took great joy in commenting on other performances under his breath, just loud enough for a witcher to hear. It made him snort on several occasions. During Valdo Marx’s performance however, Jaskier didn’t make even one snide comment. He tensed up visibly, cursed at him quite a few times, but it was as if all his usually so scalding remarks had been replaced with colourful yet uncoordinated insults. Personally, Geralt didn’t enjoy Valdo’s show too much either. His singing voice was a strange, grating mezzo, and he certainly did not hit high notes as well as other performers. He elicited an entirely different reaction from the audience than most other combatants did; he was calmer, more calculated, ensnaring in the way he twisted the meanings of words. It certainly was something else.

Every now and then, Valdo’s eyes found Jaskier in the crowd. Geralt only noticed by the way Jaskier’s breath hitched ever so slightly. Something dawned on him then, and Geralt felt something ugly and hot take root in his chest. He fought the urge to put his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders as he recalled Valdo’s earlier words, unsure if it would help Jaskier or make him even more uncomfortable. 

When applause erupted as Valdo took his final bow and tipped his hat, Jaskier exhaled a shaky breath. This clearly was more than an old rivalry or an awkward ex-lover situation.

“You’re afraid of him,” Geralt stated quietly.

The younger man froze. “What makes you say that?” 

“I’m not blind, Jaskier. Or an idiot.”

For a moment, Jaskier said nothing. Then, more quietly and with more defeat than he had ever heard from him, he whispered, “Maybe,... well, yeah.”

He said it as if he had admitted a terrible secret. It took Geralt a lot of effort to stifle the surging, red-hot rage in his chest. He had to know.

“What did he do?”

Jaskier’s hands turned to fists, and after another exhale turned to palms pressed flatly against the table. “Please, not now.”

Not shortly after, Jaskier left for their quarters and Geralt followed, feeling bad for pushing like this. Still, his terrible suspicion lingered, even as Jaskier fell asleep soundly in his arms. Valdo Marx must have done something terrible to his bard, and the mere idea of such an insufferable fellow laying a hand on Jaskier made his heart clench. 

  
  


Geralt kept watchful eyes over his bard the next few days, which was an accomplishment. But really, what else was he at this castle for? Certainly not to enjoy the noise. Nothing exactly bad happened. Of course, now that Geralt focused on it even more, he noticed all the signs of  _ terror  _ that Jaskier so adamantly tried to hide whenever Valdo was near, which could not be avoided at a festival like this. Not since the both of them seemed to be the top candidates for the win, despite of how utterly different their styles were. 

Whenever Valdo sauntered by, Jaskier’s heartbeat became erratic. He broke into sweats of varying severity, his hands began shaking lightly. Worst of all, once or twice it seemed as if his voice failed him, and he had to start his sentence over. It was bad, really bad. Despite all of this, Jaskier excelled at each and every one of his performances. The second day of the tournament was dedicated to proving how versatile each participant was on as many instruments as possible. Nothing was to be seen of trembling fingers when Jaskier showcased his skill on several stringed instruments apart from the lute, including a truly tear-jerking harp ballad and several fast-paced violin tunes. That night, Geralt saw instruments he had never seen before in his unnaturally long life, and learnt to appreciate that his travel companion did not specialise in the art of wind instruments. Those were simply too loud, he concluded. 

Wine continued to flow throughout day and night, but Jaskier told him with a wink that the winner’s trick during this week was to stay as sober as possible. “Keeps you from doing stupid things to your voice,” he said, just when two very young and very drunk women broke into a raunchy drinking song, their voices like frayed ends of a harshly cut string. “Mead however is fine, you know. Contains honey. I’d urge you to try it, but I assume it’s too sweet for your barbarian tastes.” 

To prove him wrong, Geralt had snatched the mug from Jaskier’s hands and downed it in one go. Jaskier gaped at him, then playfully punched him in the arm. 

How Jaskier kept up at an event like this despite facing his arch nemesis every day, Geralt didn’t know. His only plausible explanation was that Jaskier was, in fact, an incredibly brave man. That wasn’t news to him; so far, he had considered him foolish more often than not, for running head-first into trouble without knowing how to face the danger he would encounter. But with every time that Geralt watched Jaskier push on despite the stink of fear rolling off him in slow, thick waves, this opinion changed. 

Overall, things were going well, as far as the witcher could tell. Sure, Jaskier hid behind his broad shoulders every now and then when a certain someone passed by, and Jaskier grew more nervous about the grand show-down with every passing day, worrying over his notebook and scribbling down things whenever he had the time for it. And yeah, maybe Jaskier became a bit more erratic towards the end of the festival, this manic spark returning to his eyes every so often, and maybe he reacted more sensitively to whatever rude comment Geralt had to make at the moment. This was all perfectly excusable, considering that the festival was crescendoing. Winning this tournament not only meant quite the sum of money, it also promised even  _ more  _ fame and prestige. Also, it meant to best Valdo Marx, which was a clear priority for Jaskier. 

Geralt didn’t expect the night before the finale to take the twist it did. By then , the finalists had been announced, and as was to be expected, both Jaskier and Valdo made it, as well as a high-spirited lady named Callonetta, for whom Jaskier was rooting almost as much as for himself. 

The nights had become longer and longer, oftentimes only ending with sunrise serenaded by drunken musicians. Some of the guests must have been constantly drunk and sleep deprived for at least four days in a row. The tumults before the ceremonies which opened the stage every night became more flamboyant, and so did the perfumes the guests wore, and their outfits, and their everything. Geralt felt like he needed a solitary get-away for at least a week after this. He was on his way back to the seat which had become his second home over the past week when he noticed that Jaskier wasn’t where he had left him. In fact, as he turned around and scanned the room, he wasn’t anywhere close to where he logically  _ should  _ be, either. Not by the banquet tables, stacked with spiced meats and roasted vegetables, not by the centre stage, preparing for the show, and not even by the tables of his five most appreciated colleagues.

Cold water flooded Geralt’s veins when he noticed that Valdo Marx was nowhere to be found, either. Under other situations, he wouldn't have worried, and certainly wouldn’t immediately have abandoned his current goal - even if that was to reach a table and sit down - to track down Jaskier. He trusted the bard not to be in mortal peril whenever he let him out of sight by now. But that was just it; he trusted Jaskier. That included Jaskier’s judgement of other people. And that was why he didn’t care for the other guests who gave him strange looks when he turned on his heels and went straight for the hall’s large, single doors again. The loud thud when they closed blessedly muted the ruckus from behind him.

The witcher closed his eyes and focused on his other senses, trying to pick up any sound or scent that might tell him where Jaskier was. It took a moment to sort through the mess of sensations coming from the hall behind him, but he managed to pick up the sound of voices coming from the opposite direction. He hurried after them even before he gave his feet the command to do so.

Like a bloodhound, he followed the few clues he got, vaguely thinking that if he was overreacting, then the bard would laugh at him for the next years to come. His search led him a few hallways away from the main venue, into a wing of the castle that must have been not in use, judging by how cold it was. Still, torches were lit and illuminated the sleek stone floor and colourful tapestries. His own footfalls barely made a sound.

Yes, he was sure, the voice he had picked up on undoubtedly belonged to Jaskier, and he was getting closer too. Someone else was walking along pretty close by, and he was convinced that that must have been Valdo Marx, because the heavy smell of his perfume lingered in the air, got thicker as he approached a turn and -

Walked directly into him. Geralt reacted more by habit than by logic, and swiftly grabbed the man and slammed him into the closest wall, knocking the air from Valdo’s lungs. 

“Geralt of Rivia! What a surprise,” he wheezed, and despite clearly being in pain, smugness dripped from his voice. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to-,“ his voice became scratchy from the heavy hand pressing into his throat, “catch on.” His disgusting smile faltered slightly when his feet struggled to stay connected to the floor and Geralt snarled at him.

_ “What did you do to him,”  _ the witcher growled, hardly keeping his boiling rage under control. Traces of Jaskier clung to Valdo’s scent, angrily bitter and fearfully sour. He made a point out of pressing down harder on Valdo’s throat, cutting off his air long enough for his face to turn into an ugly, splotchy red as he squirmed. 

“Nothing not done before,” Valdo gritted out when Geralt finally allowed him to, still with this vile air of nonchalance, and a spark in his watery eyes that bordered on perverse. Geralt had seen this look on countless people’s faces before, but it never ceased to disturb him.

“Count yourself lucky that I don’t have my swords on me,” he hissed with bared teeth. “Or don’t, because if I find one hair harmed on Jaskier’s head I promise you will wish for the mercy of a sword.” To emphasise his point, Geralt drove a fist into Valdo’s gut. 

Valdo grunted, and began shoving the witcher in the chest, trying to no avail to get rid of him. “Please, no need for violence,” panic began lacing his tone,  _ good _ , “he’s fine. See for yourself.” He weakly gestured down the hallway he had come from. He was thrown to the floor with just little enough force to break any bones, and Geralt marched off into the direction he had indicated. There was time for revenge later.

He found Jaskier casually sitting on the ground at the end of the stupidly long hallway, and upon first glance he did, in fact, look ‘fine.’ His relatively normal heartbeat suggested the same; the way his eyes were lost in the middle distance did not. Neither did his lack of reaction when Geralt approached and knelt down beside him. Geralt knew better than to shake him by the shoulder, and instead snapped his fingers in front of his face a few times. Finally, Jaskier blinked, and turned to look at him. He  _ reeked  _ of subdued panic.

“Oh, hello there,” he said softly. “Fancy meeting you here. I assume it’s time I get up, huh?” An easy, absolutely fake smile spread on his face and his hands casually moved to his collar. Geralt hadn’t noticed it before, but now that Jaskier was so off-handedly fixing his rumpled-up shirt and jacket, he saw the bruises forming there, some finger shaped, others looked ominously mouth-shaped.

“I’m going to murder this bastard,” he growled, and Jaskier flinched at the sound, then laughed quietly.

“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said.” He was silent for a moment, eyes still unnervingly unfocused. He rubbed a hand over his bruised neck before closing up his doublet properly. He sighed. “I’m fine, Geralt. Don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re not even looking at me-,” he halted. No. Not important. He cleared his throat. “Jaskier. Honestly. Are you hurt?” Geralt tried to say as kindly as he was capable of.

“Honestly? I’m clearly bleeding out, as you can see.” He sounded like he was far away.

“Jaskier.”

“Ugh, alright.” Jaskier put his head on his knees, which were curled in close. “No, Geralt, I’m not hurt. I can handle a little rivalrous banter before a duel.” His voice was slow, his words careful. Geralt didn’t buy it.

“He  _ bit  _ you. Do you call that banter?” Geralt folded his legs under himself, sitting down opposite the bard, whose heartbeat suddenly picked up.

“Maybe not where you come from.” 

“From what I saw, and from what this disgusting man has told me, he harassed you, Jaskier.” Geralt winced at how detached he sounded when he said this. Jaskier winced, too, and his head shot up.

“What did he tell you?” 

“Enough to kindle concern.”  _ Enough to make me want to flay the skin off his body. _

“No, Geralt, don’t play this game with me, not right now. What did he tell you?” Jaskier’s voice almost broke from the sudden panic it was riddled with. 

Geralt thought for a moment. He was aware that he was making this conversation a living hell for the bard, if his suspicion was true. He settled on, “Nothing that would make me think any less of you.”

Jaskier’s face froze, wide-eyed. “O-oh.” He said. Then, even more quietly, even for a Witcher’s ear, “He’s just… he is trying to rile me up, is all. It’s almost a tradition, you could say.”

Geralt grunted inquisitively. Jaskier looked away again, hiding his face behind his knees as a light shudder went through him. “Valdo, he… he has his ways to keep me from winning. He knows how to push my buttons.” 

He had to clench his jaw to stay quiet, because he feared if he interrupted Jaskier now, he would never know the extent of what Valdo had put him through. He would have to tell Jaskier later that he had no reason to sound so fucking  _ apologetic  _ about this.

Jaskier sighed again, and when he spoke again he sounded brittle, about to crack. “He hasn’t done anything truly awful in a while. Until a few years ago he would make sure that my voice was raspy from…, from misuse. By the time the finale came around.” He shuddered once more. “The first tournament I won was the first one I participated in. Valdo has been terrorising me since. And the worst thing about it is-,” a sudden hiccup ended his sentence, followed by a sniff. Geralt smelt the tears before they came, hot and salty, and he could no longer help himself. He leaned forward to wrap an arm around the other man, pulling him gently into a hug. Jaskier went along, almost fell into his chest, and buried himself under Geralt’s arms. Geralt put a steady hand on Jaskier’s back when he began shaking from the sobs wracking him. 

He waited until his breathing had levelled out a big before coaxing, “What’s the worst thing?” Something was in the process of breaking out of his bard, and he felt that whatever it was, Jaskier had to get it off his heart.

Jaskier pressed his face even closer to Geralt’s chest, tears soaking through the fabric. “The worst thing is that it’s  _ my fault _ that he’s doing it. I gave him the idea.” 

Geralt waited patiently for Jaskier to bring himself to continue, no matter how strongly he already wanted to refute him. Instead he pressed his hand a bit more firmly into his back.

“I was drunk on my victory, in every sense of the term, after I’d won that first tournament. I thought I was invincible. The best poet to have ever wandered the earth. I provoked him, because he was a sore loser, and I didn’t shut up when I had to- which is funny, isn’t it, I never do, and see where it gets me.” Another sob, chased by a dirty hiccup. “I was stupid, so stupid, Geralt. Wanna know what I said? I said, ‘Come over here and make me’ when he told me to watch my mouth. And he did. He made me. Made me choke on his disgusting, unwashed dick for the entire night, even I threw up from the wine. I forgot half of it and was foolish enough to return to Vartburg castle the next year, but didn’t even qualify for the final day because he had me scream my throat bloody before day three.”

In his arms, Jaskier was still shaking. If it wasn’t for his ability to control his physical reactions so finely, Geralt too would be shaken by his rage. But instead he remained calm, heartbeat forcefully slow and skin cool, as he pressed down the sheer hatred for Valdo Marx into a grotesque clump of murderous intent in the pit of his stomach. A hundred different scenarios of torture built up in his mind, ways to make this despicable excuse for a human suffer, none of which would be enough to wreak vengeance for what he had done to his bard. 

Jaskier struggled to find words. “He’s been, uh, he did that for a few more years. Until I kept winning despite,... that. By now all he does is rough me up a bit. Please don’t ask why I let him, I… I don’t know. I can’t  _ do  _ anything. Believe me, I’ve… tried.” His voice trailed out into nothingness as he admitted that last part. He sounded tired, exhausted and, worst of all, as if he believed himself guilty. 

“I can kill him,” stated Geralt firmly. Jaskier snorted.

“You don’t kill people,” Jaskier reminded him weakly.

“He lost the right to that privilege many years ago.”

Jaskier exhaled shakily. The sobs had abated. Geralt did not let go of him.

“Maybe tomorrow. After I’ve beat him fair and square - oh. Oh shit. Did I miss the finale?” Suddenly, Jaskier struggled to get out of Geralt’s hold to stand on slightly shaky feet. His face looked terrible, cheeks red and eyes puffy from crying. Geralt huffed, and rose as well. He knew that not a lot of time could have passed since he left the main hall, so he shook his head.

“Not yet. You sure you want to go back?” 

“Yes,” answered Jaskier, steadiness returning to him just as a spark of determination lit in his eyes. “I’ll make his last night in this life a night to remember.”

With that, the bard strode off, a confidence in his step that Geralt could hardly believe considering his situation mere seconds ago. He followed close behind, and would not leave his side again for the rest of the evening.

Watching the grand finale was an experience not only Geralt would certainly never forget. A questioning rumour spread through the hall when Jaskier returned with a dramatic bang of the heavy wooden door, face still messy but  _ burning  _ with something intangible to the audience, and the Witcher’s looming figure hovering behind him. The herald, who had been moderating the nightly performances, loudly rejoiced and almost immediately introduced the final battle of poets. Jaskier was taken to the stage in the centre of the hall where he was once more faced by Valdo Marx who was visibly surprised and perhaps even shaken by Jaskier’s bold appearance.

He was also visibility shaken by the glares Geralt sent his way every time their eyes met. Geralt hoped, just for a moment, that Valdo possessed the gift of mind-reading, just so that he would be able to see exactly what the witcher was planning for him to happen on his journey home.

Perhaps he did; at least he was distracted enough to lose his line of thought not once but  _ twice  _ during the fast-paced battle of wits that marked the end of the tournament, which Jaskier won gloriously. 

To neither Jaskier’s nor Geralt’s surprise, a few weeks after the conclusion of the war of the singers, Valdo Marx was declared missing. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
